


Only Home He Ever Had

by honeyaintsweet (StarTwerk)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester - Freeform, Demon!Dean, Drabble, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 09:17:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1739357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarTwerk/pseuds/honeyaintsweet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Though Crowley asked him to see the world as he does, to open his eyes to this new  perspective, . . . he wonders how burnt and crispy his soul must be."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Home He Ever Had

**Author's Note:**

> This is literally just a ramble of dean leaving the bunker because he feels he can't stay with them because he's a monster and would do more harm than good so basically just more of the typical guilt... thing. So idk this might turn into something but then again it might not i'm just ranting and it's the first time i've written in while. i'm in anguish over the season nine finale, and i didn't know what else to do. if continued it would definitely be dean/cas....... no definite plot yet so seriously if you read this i will shower you with internet hugs and kisses because all i want is feedback on my writing and like...characterization? ugh. i'm nervous. this isn't even a story. but it could be? PLEASE HELP D: a spn rnny ideas for plot, help with anything you have to offer, i really just need to something to do to vent my feelings about

When he steps onto the gravel just outside the door of the bunker, he does so with finality: a decisive, sure step. He hadn’t thought of staying, until now leaving wasn’t something he had wished for. And yet here he is, opening the door of the ’67 Chevy Impala, and sliding into her slick leather seats, willing himself to keep his eyes off the rearview mirror, at least until he knows the building is out of sight. Dean doesn’t think, he doesn’t hesitate, and he certainly won't regret this decision. At least, not for the moment. 

It was a relief when he realized Sam had gone to Crowley to make a deal, to bring him back from the “dead.” He had started to believe his brother’s bullshit, inwardly mourning their relationship. But, he drank it down, not letting the emotions live, dampening them until they no longer demanded to be felt. All the same, it was one less thing to be tacked to the mental bulletin board of Dean’s guilt. Their relationship couldn’t thrive like this though, he knew it couldn’t, and he was sad it had to end when it would maybe have the chance to start up again. He’d be damned if he isn’t going to run out of tacks soon. _Goddammit._

Sammy wouldn’t know he’d up and left until morning, and it’s better that way. Goodbyes are too hard and would only hold him back, convince him that he could stay, that maybe they would work this out, that they could still be a team, when Dean knew that couldn't be a reality. 

His eyes flick, a reflex to his anger now, and he knows they shine as black as the night around him, blending with the road, the sky, his car. His eyes glance habitually in the mirror, and he shudders, horrified that he woke up like this, furious that he allowed Crowley to wake him up. _Hell of a burden you got there, Cain. Thanks for sharin’._ He cant’ even face himself. The worst part is, when he’s honest, he knows he wouldn’t change a thing. He’d become this monster, this black-eyed demon, 100 times if he knew it meant ganking Abbadon; finally watching her lose the fight was worth it. The shock in her eyes when she knew she’d lost, _ha._ Greater still, Metatron. He couldn’t allow even a glimpse of remorse for him; that son of a bitch deserved it, for what he did to Cas, what he did to Heaven, for the lost souls that had been desperately reaching for something that couldn’t be accessed, a place with closed doors. 

Though Crowley asked him to see the world as he does, to open his eyes to this newperspective, think of it as life, and not as the death he feels whenever he wonders how burnt and crispy his soul must be. Dean laughs, dry and without humor, wishing there could have been another way. He couldn’t go to anyone he knew, how would he explain this? Most people’s first instinct is a splash of holy water, a verification that he is who he says. _I’m Dean Winchester. I swear. You’re not gonna believe this, but . . ._ he’d played the situation over in his head a million times, hoping for a solution. An answer to the questions he’d no doubt be hammered with in a less than friendly way, assuming they didn’t just shoot first, ask questions later. Not that it can kill him anymore, but. The action still hurts. He just can't face them anymore than he can currently face himself. He is everything he didn't want to become, everything he had just told that kid doesn't exist. Dean Winchester is a monster, exactly like the ones he used to kill without batting an eye. The loss of his humanity stings, boils his blood, makes him grip the ugly, snaggletooth knife through the fabric he keeps wrapped around it. The reason he's in this mess, but also the reason he's still on earth. The proximity of the First Blade makes him lose sight of himself, and for the moment it takes him to convince himself to release his grip, he thinks that maybe having black eyes isn't so bad.  

 


End file.
